


The Way to a Man's Heart

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-01
Updated: 2006-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, Rodney thinks that Ronon's aversion to cutlery is just another product of seven years as a Runner, along with the scars and the use of skinned animals as a fashion statement and the ability to, you know, kill people in your sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way to a Man's Heart

At first, Rodney thinks that Ronon's aversion to cutlery is just another product of seven years as a Runner, along with the scars and the use of skinned animals as a fashion statement and the ability to, you know, kill people in your sleep. Seven years is a long time with no other people around, and he can't see any other reason for Ronon's determined and repeated efforts to eat reconstituted mashed potatoes with his hands. Not that he's given much thought to the motivations of Ronon the Barbarian, but still.

And then Corrigan has to be a good little anthropologist and ask questions, and Elizabeth has to toss around words that put fear into the heart of every right-thinking department head, like facilitating personal growth and cross-cultural exchange. By Wednesday night, Ronon's been rail-roaded into giving a demonstration of traditional Satedan cookery, with compulsory attendance for the rest of his team.

Normally, Rodney would object at having his valuable, valuable time taken up with such stupid team-building exercises. As far as he's concerned, he bonds with his team very efficiently when he's running for his life from the Wraith or whichever Neanderthal tribe they've managed to offend that week, thank you very much. Still, it's not as if he's never been one to turn down free food.

And besides, he's rather looking forward to watching Ronon scurry around the mess with his dreads piled up underneath a hair net.

But by the time he makes it down there, the preparation is mostly done. The tables in the mess are pushed back a little from the centre; in their place, there are dozens of small, low, round tables-for-two, each surrounded by a scatter of cushions. Most of them are already occupied; Ronon and Teyla, Lorne and Heightmeyer, Elizabeth and Radek (Rodney is so going to win that departmental betting pool). John is the only person left sitting by himself, and Rodney squeezes in next to him, pissing and moaning about how bad this is bound to be for his back, ignoring the way the cramped position pushes his knee against John's thigh.

"You missed the introductory speeches," John says.

"Hmm?" Rodney says, eyeing the food on the table. It all looks very... ethnic. "What? Yes, sorry, very busy in the labs, Kavanagh managed to glue himself to Simpson, it was all terribly tragic. Did I miss anything important? Like starters?"

"No," John says. "Just Elizabeth's welcome speech with reminders as to why we are all here, and Ronon's explanation of what the food is, its symbolic meaning, and his childhood ambitions to become a chef before the Wraith came."

Rodney stares. "You are joking."

"Funnily enough, I'm not," John says pensively. "I think that was the most he's spoken since he got here. Frankly, I'm kind of weirded out by it. No grown man should be that attached to cinnamon."

"Uh huh," says Rodney, who is already paying more attention to the food than to John. "I think a more relevant point of information is where, exactly, are the plates? Why is the table covered with bread?"

"That," John says, "was covered in the first part of Ronon's speech, which you would have heard if you'd gotten here on time."

"Yes, well done, top of the class," Rodney says. "You get a gold star for full attendance, Colonel. Now tell me exactly what I'm supposed to do with, with all this." He gestures at the table. It's covered with a wide piece of unleavened bread, yellowish in colour. On top are heaped small piles of food; meat and some of those reddish onions the Athosians grow, shredded lettuce and bright chunks of peppers, spicy ta'ba root and little mounds of roughly pureed sauces.

"Finger food, Rodney," John says, reaching out and tearing off a chunk of the bread. "Traditional Satedan food is eaten with the hands. Use your right hand to hold the bread, take a little bit of everything"—deftly adding a little meat, some lettuce, some ta'ba root, before dipping it in the reddish sauce—"and then you give it to your partner to eat." He holds the little bread roll over to Rodney.

"Wh-what?" Rodney stutters. "Partner? I—"

He looks around the room, but sees the others there do the same. Radek is laughing as he pops a small piece of bread into Elizabeth's mouth; Ronon and Teyla are sharing a drink from the same rough-hewn gourd. Oh.

"It's the custom, Rodney," John says. "You wouldn't want to be insensitive towards 'traditional Satedan forms of social interaction', now would you?" He all but flutters his eyelashes as he speaks.

"Bastard," Rodney mutters, but he accepts the food anyway, trying his best not to shiver when John leans in and strokes his thumb over Rodney's lower lip under the pretence of making sure that he feeds Rodney properly, making sure that nothing is wasted. The food is incredibly hot, spicy and rich. Much hotter than Rodney, palate trained by upbringing and temperament to prefer bland safety, is used to; his mouth tingles when John moves his hand away.

"Rodney?" John says after a moment or two, when Rodney still shows no sign of reciprocating. "Hungry here?"

"Oh, right. Right!" Rodney says. He tears off a chunk of bread, wraps it clumsily around meat and green peppers, dips it in the sauce, before holding it out stiffly to John. John leans in and takes it, neat white teeth taking the food in one bite, swallowing quickly before soft lips and clever tongue lick the remnants of sauce from Rodney's fingers, warm heat swirling around his fingertips. Hidden beneath the tablecloth, their legs press closer together.

Rodney can feel himself getting hard, so, so quickly. He knows what he must look like, eyes wide and face flushed, and he knows that behind the carefully innocent expression, John is laughing at him. "Bastard," he says again, and this time, John does laugh.

"Relax, Rodney," he murmurs, "I was just about to suggest an early night for both of us, anyway."

"What," Rodney says, in between sips of water, "and miss all this wonderful food?"

"Actually," John says significantly, "I've got a couple of extra courses back in my room; and you know I'm all about inter-personal team relations."

Rodney blinks. Then "Oh," and he all but trips over his feet when he makes his excuses and gets up, follows John out the door.

He's never been any good at waiting for his dessert.


End file.
